.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
1598, Kyoto, Gojo clan estate
"Toyotomi Hideyoshi is dead."
The words snapped through the air like a bowstring.
Seijiro didn't move. Didn't blink. He only tilted his head slightly—like he hadn't heard right—and let a dry breath escape through his nose.
Well. That was fast.
He didn't answer immediately, he just sat there, cross-legged on the tatami in the middle of the Gojo clan's grand hall, bathed in candlelight and political decay as the summer settled over Kyoto. His haori was half-loose, his posture not quite respectful, but his jaw was set tight.
And his mind was racing.
The implications of those four words began to weave themselves together in his thoughts, each thread connecting to a web of suspicion. Hideyoshi's death was no small matter, it was a ripple destined to become a tsunami .
Across from him, Akiteru Gojo, hos father, sat way too calm for the news he was delievering, almost like a Buddha, or like Senju Kannon as most of his enemies liked to call him. Perfectly still, back straight, face unreadable. But Seijiro knew better; his father was no Buddha.
And, more importantly, he sure was no Senju Kannon.
"And," Akiteru added, brushing a hand down his face, "the Mitsuboshi no Yari has been stolen."
That got a reaction.
A laugh. Sharp, humorless. "Of course it has," Seijiro said, with all the bitterness of someone watching a building collapse in slow motion. "Otherwise the old man might've lived long enough to die of old age."
Akiteru's blue eyes flicked up, piercing with implicit agreement. He didn't respond, but he didn't have to; Seijiro was not an idiot and the timing was perfect. Too perfect. Hideyoshi dead, the spear gone, Tokugawa Ieyasu rising like mold in the summer heat. What a coincidence. Someone had pulled the last thread and now they all got to watch the fallout. Before his father could add another layer of ominous silence, Seijiro was already on his feet, cursed energy prickling under his skin like it wanted out.
"Where are you going?" Akiteru asked, calm, cold, and knowing exactly where.
Seijiro paused at the threshold and glanced back with a crooked smile that didn't reach his eyes. "To get the damn spear back, Chichiue," he said. "Or would you prefer we wait until the regents strangle each other and Hideyori-dono follows his father into a crypt?"
Akiteru's voice cut the air like a blade. "Seijiro."
He froze.
"Sit."
Seijiro, tongue halted by the command in his father's voice, hesitated long enough to consider ignoring it. Then turned, jaw tight, and reluctantly lowered himself back onto the floor with all the grace of someone swallowing glass, as he always did when his father scolded him.
Akiteru let the silence stretch just long enough. "You think you'll find the Mitsuboshi no Yari by throwing a tantrum and kicking our enemies' doors down?" he said evenly. "No one knows who took it. And if you act without evidence, you'll start a war with other clans we can't afford yet."
Seijiro leaned on one knee, chin in his hand. "No one knows," he repeated, voice flat. "Right. We're all very confused. The spear goes missing, Hideyoshi drops dead, and Tokugawa just happens to be in the perfect position to swoop in. How mysterious. Let's all pretend we don't know who's behind this, shall we?"
Akiteru's brow twitched with exasperation. "Don't say it."
"Oh, I won't." Seijiro sat up straighter, disdain dripping in his voice. "But let me guess. The Zenin just happened to be aligned with Tokugawa, too? How curious. What an unfortunate coincidence."
"That's enough."
The younger Gojo sat up fully, gesturing emphatically. "The clan that suddenly presents a child with the Ten Shadows that can potentially wield the same spear that's currently missing? Everyone knows it! How can I be the only one seeing—"
"Enough." Akiteru's palm hit the tatami with a crack and te room fell still.
Seijiro shut his mouth. He wasn't stupid. Especially not when only he could see, with the Six Eyes, the cursed energy spooling around Akiteru's frame in invisible limbs, twisting, ready, waiting. Eighteen phantom arms attached to his back, each one stronger than a bear and faster than a hawk. His father's technique wasn't just for defense, and Seijiro didn't feel like bleeding for the hand of Senju Kannon tonight.
"You will not accuse the Zenin without proof," Akiteru said, voice once more composed, but colder. "This isn't about personal grudges. It's about the balance that the clans are barely holding together as it is. If conflict happens, we will not start it. Do you understand?"
Seijiro's eyes narrowed. "So we just pretend we don't remember what they did to us?"
"Exactly. Until we have something real. We always wait."
A long beat.
Akiteru sighed, his tone softer now but no less resolute. "In two weeks, there will be a summit at the Kamo residence. Given our current tensions with the Zenin, they've offered to mediate, citing their neutrality —"
"Neutrality," Seijiro muttered with a scoff.
Ignoring the jab, Akiteru continued. "You will attend as the future head of the Gojo clan. You will investigate. Quietly. If the Zenin are involved, we find out. If the spear can be retrieved—"
"Don't tell me."
"—you retrieve it," Akiteru finished, unbothered. "It must be returned to the Fushimi castle to protect the boy."
Seijiro leaned back barely, exhaling through his nose. "Fine," he said finally, his tone halfway between agreement and insolence. "No diplomatic catastrophes," he said dryly. Then, with a pointy glance at his father, he added blandly, "unless I'm provoked."
Akiteru's glare said he didn't find the joke funny but Seijiro, predictably, didn't care. He rose anyway, brushing imaginary dust from his hakama with that half-dramatic flair he used when he was seconds away from doing something stupid or deeply strategic; usually both. But at the threshold, he paused. One hand on the shōji. A beat. Then: "You know, Chichiue," he said, almost casually, "maybe we should stop pretending the Zenin haven't already gotten away with murder."
Akiteru's voice was already sharp. "Don't start—"
"Oh, I've started," Seijiro snapped, turning just enough to meet his father's eyes. The smirk was gone, replaced by something quieter. Blunter. "Or did we forget how this all began? Thirty-two days. That's how long my older brother lasted. Thirty-two. First Six Eyes in hundreds years, born perfect—and dead before he could form a word."
Right. His elder brother was supposed to be the honored one.
Seijiro wasn't supposed to be born. Nor he was supposed to matter. At best, he should have been the second child. And second child were for backup, for convenience, for ceremony. He was meant to live in silk, practice katas for show, flirt with ministers' daughters, and stay beautifully uninvolved while his elder brother did the actual work of leading.
He was not supposed to inherit anything at all; not the Six Eyes, not the clan, not the title. Certainly not the responsibility of a blood feud older than him.
That fantasy ended before it could even start, when his elder brother bled out in a cradle at thirty-two days old, by the hand of a man with a scar across his forehead. No one knew his name, but everyone knew. The Zenin clan head and his wife had struggled for years to produce a male heir, after all, and the line of succession was at risk and the clan on the verge of internal conflict; they couldn't let a Gojo miracle child grow unchecked under those circumstances.
The next morning, Akiteru Gojo buried with his beloved wife his first son and decided that miracles didn't get second chances.
And Seijiro was later born out of necessity.
Akiteru's posture stiffened and his voice came low with unresolved fury. "There is no proof."
Seijiro let out a short, bitter laugh."Right. Just another coincidence." He looked back, eyes pale as ice. "The Zenin couldn't produce a male heir, and then a Gojo boy is born and dead with everything. And now the world can't shut up about Kaoru Zenin. The prodigy of the decade."
Akiteru's reply cut clean: "And yet you're still alive. With everything. Aren't you."
Seijiro stopped. One shoulder tensed. "Everything?" he echoed. "I'm alive. With the Six Eyes. And a mother who lost her mind because you told her I was born dead."
Akiteru didn't flinch. "It was necessary."
"Necessary," Seijiro's voice cracked on the edge of control. "You let her mourn me. You ler her bury an empty box with my name on it. You told the world I didn't exist so the Zenin wouldn't try again, and now she's—" He broke off, and Akiteru's expression briefly faltered.
Seijiro's exsistence was hidden to the world by his father, even to his own mother.
By the time he was five, the Zenin had announced a son of their own—Kaoru Zenin, heir to the clan. And so, Akiteru brought his second son out of hiding, with the Six Eyes blazing like a curse carved into his skull and said: smile for the ministers, boy. And don't die.
Seijiro was so happy when he met his mother for the first time, at five, run to her, tried to properly introduce himself as he had been taught by his father. She slapped him then tried to cut her own throat that night, swearing she had buried both her sons and that she could still hear crying in the walls. The servants said it was grief. Seijiro knew better. She had a son. Then no son. Then a son again. Then... Her husband delievered the news that her second son had stopped breathing short after birth. That kind of lie splits a mind in half.
She never recovered, and so Seijiro's life of hell began.
Five poisoning attempts before the age of ten. Three attempted kidnappings. One cursed-wound in an ambush that nearly took his left arm, at the age of seven.
Akiteru's tone remained cold. "Your brother was murdered. I made sure it didn't happen to you. The Six Eyes made you a target the moment you were born. You would not have lived to see your first year if I hadn't done what I did." His father's gaze softened. Barely. "What I did, I did to preserve the clan's future," he said.
Seijiro stared at him. The words landed with no fanfare, no apology, just strategy, polished into paternal instinct.
Right. Not me. The clan.
"And what they did?" Seijiro shot back. "What about my mother? My brother? That doesn't get a reckoning?"
"If you let that grudge cloud your decision, you will endanger everything I've worked for. You will drag this clan into a war we still cannot win."
"Maybe. But I'm not sure I care." Seijiro said simply.
He stepped outside without looking back. The hall was quiet. Summer air pressed against the paper walls like held breath.
Seijiro had done everything in his power not to become the heir his father wanted.
He'd pierced his ears without a reason. Worn his uniform loose. Laughed too loud at formal dinners and spilled sake on imperial scrolls. He kissed who he liked, when he liked, and showed up to duels dressed like a courtesan with a grudge.
But unfortunately—tragically—he was a prodigy.
Every mission they gave him, he completed. Every curse, every rebellion, every political favor: resolved.
Not in spite of his recklessness, because of it. Efficient. Precise. Terrifyingly effective.
And every time, Akiteru looked at him the same way: not like a father looks at a son, but like a soldier looks at his favorite blade.
If you asked Seijiro how he felt about inheriting the Gojo Clan? He'd smirk at you sideways, jade earrings catching the sun, and say: Oh, it's not my clan. I'm just borrowing it long enough to burn it down.
Yes. Let the war come, he thought with a hint of pretentiousness as he strode down the engawa.
They took his family. They turned his life hell. They made him an heir.
And if the Zenin thought their prodigy was untouchable?
Good.
He'd enjoy proving them wrong.
.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
The sound of cicadas hummed in the thick forest air as Seijiro adjusted the loose knot of his white haori. It hung open, draped over his shoulders, in contrast with the black of his attire. His hair, tied into his usual half-hearted ponytail at the nape of his neck, was already coming undone, stray strands brushing his cheeks and falling in his eyes. He didn't bother fixing it; his mood had soured considerably with the task at hand, and appearances weren't high on his list of concerns.
They had left the Gojo estate in Kyoto at first light. The residence, nestled in the northeastern district of Kyoto near the Kamo River, was an imposing amd elegant structure, a fitting reflection of their clan's status. It stood as both a sanctuary and a bastion, a protective defensive line for the Toyotomi-aligned forces, as for years, they had stood as the supernatural protectors of Kyoto's political elite.
And of course, disaster striked the only time they had been far from Kyoto.
Seijiro clicked his tongue in frustration.
"Let's get this over with," he muttered, letting out a humorless chuckle under his breath, his blue eyes narrowing as he glanced at his companion. "That Tokugawa Ieyasu will waste no time now."
Behind him, his shadow moved silently: a man of equal height but a far quieter disposition. Rensuke, a shinobi of the Koga clan. Rensuke's steps were silent as expected of a shinobi, his thin black eyes lazy and unreadable as always. His black shozoku blended seamlessly with the forest shadows, and his tanto was strapped tightly across his back. He had been at Seijiro's side since they both were five, his skill in stealth, and suppressing his presence and cursed energy unmatched. While technically a bodyguard, his role had evolved into something more ambiguous. Rensuke handled the tasks that Seijiro as the clan heir couldn't, or rather, shouldn't, be caught doing.
The rest of their delegation, a handful of sorcerers from the Gojo clan and its minor branches, followed several respectful paces behind then.
"Try not to look so sour, Seijiro-sama," Rensuke said quietly with dry humor. "You might frighten the trees."
Seijiro snorted. "Sour? Hardly. Just preparing myself to endure the sight of Takahiro Zenin without ripping out his heart and shoving it down his throat. You know, diplomacy and all of that."
"Truly, a noble effort," Rensuke replied, his tone so flat it was difficult to tell whether he was serious.
Seijiro ignored him. The conversation with his father two weeks earlier still gnawed at the back of his mind. The mere thought of sitting across from the Zenin clan head, or worse the so-called prodigy they'd paraded around as a rival to him, made his teeth clench. It wasn't just old grudges between their fathers, it was the constant comparison, the constant rivalry. The Zenin were everywhere, meddling in matters they had no business in. And now, the disappearance of the Mitsuboshi no Yari? Too coincidental. Too damn convenient.
"Behave Seijiro," he muttered under his breath, echoing his father's admonition. "Don't start a war. Don't give Chichiue another headache."
Yeah, behave. As if the Zenin didn't deserve retaliation for their centuries of meddling with them. And now, with the cursed spear missing and the political landscape fractured by Hideyoshi's death, tensions were at an all-time high. Seijiro scoffed inwardly. Behave while we let the Zenin insult our intelligence and get away with murder? His fingers twitched at his sides, imagining what he would rather do than sit through a diplomatic discussion.
The journey to the Kamo residence was short, requiring only a brief trek through a forested stretch before reaching their sprawling opulent estate. The Kamo, that conveniently claimed neutrality while always tipping the scales, were conveniently positioned between the Gojo and Zenin territories, both geographically and politically.
And had the damning hobby of giving unprompted lectures to the others two big clans about balance and peace.
Lost in his thoughts, Seijiro almost didn't notice the shift in the air—almost. His pace slowed slightly, his head tilted as he felt it. A faint whistle of air preceded the sharp thud of an arrow being caught mere inches from Seijiro's face. Rensuke's hand closed around the shaft, holding it steady as he inspected the tip.
Seijiro raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Nice catch." He turned his head slowly, his gaze falling on the arrowhead. The faint, sickly sheen of cursed energy was unmistakable. "Poisoned?" he muttered, his voice low and sharp. His lips curved into a wry smile. "How thoughtful."
The shinobi crushed the arrow in his fist, his eyes darkened scanning the treeline. "Ambush."
"Of course," Seijiro replied, his hands slipping into his sleeves as he surveyed the attackers. Another attempt to his life. Nothing new.
Except, the timing this time was maddening.
Numerous figures emerged from the shadows of the forest, their faces obscured by tengu masks and weapons shining with reinforced cursed energy. Their movements were coordinated but not refined; this was not the work of seasoned warriors, but rather mercenaries or, worse, expendable pawns.
Seijiro stood still, his hands still in his sleeves, observing the chaos with detached calm. None of the attackers used cursed techniques, just crude infusions of cursed energy into their weapons. It was almost a sloppy, suicidal attempt.
They don't want to be identified?
"Amateurs," he muttered under his breath. "If you're going to try an ambush, at least make it convincing."
One of the masked assailants broke from the fray, charging directly at Seijiro with a katana that gleamed with the same poison as the arrow.
The Six Eyes caught the movement before the attacker even entered his peripheral vision. Seijiro didn't bother moving from his spot. Instead, he raised a single hand, channeling his cursed energy into a pulse of blue light that coalesced around his palm, creating a gravitational force that slammed the assailant into a nearby tree with a final crack. The tree groaned before toppling over and pinning the would-be assassin beneath its weight.
Seijiro lowered his hand, expression unamused as he turned to observe the rest of the battle. The Gojo sorcerers made quick work of the remaining attackers; despite their aggression, the ambush lacked the precision or intention to pose a genuine threat. Within moments, the forest was silent again, save for the distant hum of scared cicadas.
Rensuke remained at his side, unmoving. He knew better than to interfere when Seijiro was in control, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his tanto. "Efficient as always, Seijiro-sama."
He strode forward, his boots crunching softly against the forest floor. He knelt beside one of the dead attackers, yanking the tengu mask from the man's head, revealing a face so nondescript it was almost frustrating. Nothing. No markings, no mon, nothing that tied him to any specific clan.
"Convenient," he said dryly, tossing the mask aside. But he wasn't fooled. No one staged an ambush like this without a purpose. He stood, brushing off his hands. "Completely anonymous. And yet… anonymity is its own signature." He turned his gaze back to the carnage. The ambush had been almost laughably weak for an actual attempt to harm them. "Too much effort for so little."
Rensuke approached, his blade still sheathed. "Too sloppy for an assassination attempt."
"Too clean for a distraction," Seijiro countered, his voice thoughtful. This wasn't a real ambush, it was meant to be noticed but not devastating. It felt like a test, a warning, perhaps, but the purpose eluded him. His pale eyes narrowed as his mind settled on the obvious culprit. "Zenin," he spat, the word carrying more venom than the weapons they'd just faced.
The shinobi knelt beside him, his tone as calm as ever, as if nothing happened. "Orders, Seijiro-sama?"
Seijiro straightened, with a lazy grin. "We camp here for the night, the Kamo can wait another day. I'll need you to scout ahead."
The shinobi bowed slightly in acknowledgment but didn't move. Seijiro met his gaze, his tone quieter but no less firm in giving his orders. "Go to the Kamo residence, scope the place out. I want eyes on the Zenin delegation. See if their clan head is there, who they've brought, and what they're doing. Anything suspicious, report back immediately. I want no surprise in that snake's pit."
Without hesitation or another word, Rensuke rose, vanishing into the shadows with the ease of a breath.
As the camp preparations began, Seijiro leaned against a tree, his mind racing. Everything about this—from the spear's disappearance to this warning ambush—reeked of Zenin involvement.
.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
The first rays of morning light had just filtered through the dense canopy of trees when the shinobi returned. Seijiro sat cross-legged by the fading embers of their campfire, not surprised when Rensuke appeared, silent as ever, emerging from the shadows like a specter. He crouched at his side, his face as unreadable as ever.
"Well?" Seijiro quickly prompted, with a posture deceptively relaxed.
The shinobi glanced toward the other sorcerers, ensuring they were out of earshot, before speaking in his usual reserved manner. "The head of the Zenin clan is absent. Takahiro Zenin has chosen to send his heir in his place."
Seijiro's brow arched, a smirk twitching at the corner of his lips. "Figures," he said, his voice laced with sarcasm. "What are the odds?"
Rensuke gave no response, merely continuing his report. "The Zenin heir arrived on time, with a small but capable retinue. The Kamo clan's hospitality seems to be in full effect, there's nothing outwardly suspicious about their behavior."
Seijiro exhaled in a mix of irritation and amusement. "Takahiro Zenin sends his prodigy to play diplomat while he stays behind to plot this little games. Classic." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he mulled over the implications. "The ambush," he continued, his voice dripping with mockery, "was meant to delay me, force me to miss the meeting, or—best of all—maybe even kill me, though I doubt they're that fool fo believed It could have worked."
Rensuke gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. "Possibly. Though the ambush seemed half-hearted. A warning, if anything."
Seijiro hummed in agreement, his mind spinning. The Zenin clan had always been opportunistic, and this was their style: subtle moves to test their rivals without leaving a trail. Whether the Kamo clan was involved in this charade was a question for a future Seijiro.
"And the prodigy?" Seijiro asked, feigning disinterest as he examined the hem of his haori.
Rensuke hesitated, a rarity for the usually unshakable shinobi. "Unusual," he said finally. "You'll want to see him for yourself."
That caught Seijiro's attention. Rensuke wasn't one to exaggerate, let alone express doubt, and for him this was practically a declaration. "That interesting, huh?"
Rensuke gave a curt nod.
"Fine," Seijiro said, already sensing the headache forming behind his eyes. "Let's go meet this famous prodigy."
Which led them now to the Kamo residence.
They arrived a full day late, which, in diplomacy, was just one notch below arriving covered in someone else's blood.
The main gates were as pretentious as expected. Sculpted wood, calligraphy so precise it felt smug, and garden stones aligned with such "neutrality" they screamed curated indecision. The whole place reeked of Kamo-brand elegance: expensive, evasive, and politically useless.
Seijiro had no patience for any of it.
The moment the servant slid open the fusuma and announced them, he adjusted his haori, and tossed his ponytail back over his shoulder with unnecessary flair before stepping through like he owned the place.
Late. Loud. Already annoyed at the world. He walked with the confidence of someone who didn't care to be late. Behind him, Rensuke followed, a silent shadow as always, his eyes quietly scanning every corner of the room for possible danger, or maybe just searching for a spot for his next nap.
"My apologies for the delay," he said, bowing just deeply enough to avoid being executed on the spot. "We were… unavoidably detained."
Which was true, if one considered Zenin mortal ambush a legitimate detention. And yet, here he was, fresh haori and everything, not a scratch on him.
The hall was full of the usual suspects: clan envoys, council parasites, and one visibly dying regent representative who looked five minutes from throwing himself out a window just to escape the meeting. At the center sat the head of the Kamo clan, all smiles and false warmth; a fox-faced old man who presided over the proceedings like a tea ceremony host with a loaded crossbow under the floorboards.
Then—
There, across the room, still turning his back to him.
Kaoru Zenin.
The prodigy. The other prodigy. His rival and equal on paper. Still as a portrait, dressed like a funeral and painted like a prince. The reason Seijiro had spent the better part of the last decade being told he wasn't trying hard enough.
He hadn't spoken to Kaoru before, but they had seen eachother .
Once.
At a Kamo-hosted banquet, years ago, when he was barely more than a child. He was twelve, maybe thirteen. Kaoru was... what? Eight? Nine? He remembered the saké smell on the adults, the ridiculous ritual fan dances, the candlelight, and across the room, the Zenin heir: tiny, expressionless, and already radiating unbearable self-seriousness. Some stiff little boy, Kaoru-something, with a stare like it was evaluating everyone for execution and a topknot so tight it gave Seijiro a headache.
Seijiro could spot a survival performance from miles away; they shared one, after all.
And the look Kaoru'd given him, perfectly polite, almost reverent, had carried the emotional weight of an unsaid "choke, Gojo."
It had lingered, that one glance, half judgment, half prophecy. He remembered thinking: That kid's going to ruin something for me one day.
And kami, he was right.
He reached the center of the room, bowing again briefly to the Kamo head, a gesture of respect just deep enough to avoid insult but not so deep as to imply deference. Then turned—and stopped.
Oh.
Oh.
That was Kaoru Zenin?
What the actual—
Sure, it had been years since that one time he had seen the other heir, but he'd expected Kaoru to grow up. Mature, grow a broad shoulders, hardened jawline, commanding aura. Instead… His brain sputtered. Where was the general? The terrifying Zenin heir who tamed shikigami before puberty and exorcised curses without backup? Because this? This was a court lady in armor.
What.
What?
Kaoru stood like a calligraphy brushstroke: crimson kosode, black kamishimo, Zenin mon embroidered in gold. Composed. Slim. Short. Pretty in a way that was actively annoying. Not a single black hair out of place. Her face—too fine. Her lips—too full. Her jaw—too soft. Her skin—too pale. The entire package screamed court prince, not clan weapon. And those infuriatingly serene black eyes, scrutinizing him as if she was better.
Too perfect. Too… fake. He kind of wanted to slap her.
Seijiro tried not to make a face as his expectations dropped straight into the tatami floor. Failed. This? This was what he'd been measured against his entire life? This was the phantom rival in every report, the reason he was always "undisciplined," "unfocused," "second-best."
His brain offered three thoughts in quick succession:
The first was: This can't be right.
The second thought was: Don't say that out loud.
The third was: Oh, I'm going to.
He felt frustration twist under his ribs like a blade. This was supposed to be his equal? Years of hearing "Kaoru Zenin matched this at ten" or "Kaoru Zenin mastered that at twelve," and instead, he got this smug little… bonsai of a person. All aesthetics, no weight.
This was a joke. A really bad one.
And worse: Kaoru looked at him like she was watching a particularly talkative pigeon land on the wrong engawa. Not a hint of recognition, let alone intimidation. Their gaze met his like a wall, silent and immovable, but kami if it didn't make him want to poke it just to hear the crack in her face.
That sealed it.
Seijiro felt a grin tug at his lips despite himself. Fine. If Kaoru wasn't going to blink, he'd make her. He stepped forward, folded his arms, and let the sarcasm drip. "Well, well," he said, tone deliberately airy. "The famous prodigy of the Zenin clan, I presume? I pictured someone taller."
Behave, Seijiro. You're here to secure a cursed weapon, not start a war.
…Or do both, if you can multitask.
Somewhere in his head, Rensuke was screaming don't, but Seijiro was already committed.
The room quieted. Even the air felt like it was watching. Kaoru didn't blink, holding his gaze, blue meeting black. Behind her, a tall retainer—the kind of man who'd kill for her—looked like he wanted to slap a Gojo on general principle. His hand hovered near his weapon. Seijiro ignored him completely. His attention was locked on Kaoru now, unimpressed and unapologetic. He let his gaze drop—down her frame, slow and deliberate, let her see—and back up, eyebrow raised
Unacceptable.
So, naturally, he opened his mouth.
"So," he continued, leaning forward with insolence, enough to weaponize the height difference. "Do you actually have one, Pretty Boy? You know, a—" he gestured vaguely downward, his voice carrying volume to ensure everyone in the room heard him. "—something between your legs? Or is it just that face keeping you in the game?"
Silence. Absolute. The cursed kind.
Rensuke tensed beside him like we talked about this, Seijiro-sama, we really did. The Kamo patriarch made a strangled noise into his sleeve. The Zenin guard took half a step forward like he was about to challenge him to a duel or commit a high-stakes homicide.
Seijiro dipped his chin, almost daring him to try. Go ahead, he thought cynically. Make the first move. Give me an excuse to escalate.
And Kaoru, calm, precise, princely Kaoru, looked him dead in the eye. Then she smiled, a small dangerous thing, like a cat about to decide if you're worth swatting. "Gojo-sama," she said, voice sharp enough to slit a jugular. "My face is the least of your concerns."
He blinked. Wait—
"Though I understand why you'd be focused on it," she added casually with a small chuckle, "considering it's the only thing in this room prettier than you."
He choked. Internally. Wait, wait—
There was a flicker of heat up his neck. He wasn't sure if it was rage, shame, or unholy interest.
Then she went in for the kill.
"Perhaps," she said, voice still perfectly pleasant, "if your punctuality matched your wit, we wouldn't be having this conversation a full day late." A pause. Long enough to sting. "Then again…" She tilted her head slightly, narrowing her black eyes. "I might have overestimated both."
Murmurs rippled through the room. The Kamo patriarch coughed again, definitely covering a laugh this time. Her retainer, standing behind her, didn't even try to hide his smirk.
Bastard.
Seijiro stood there, grin still technically on his face, but stiff now. He swallowed something bitter. Kami, she was fast. And good. Too good. Worse: she'd flipped it without blinking, the kind of insult you only registered three seconds later because you were still processing how pretty it sounded. And underneath it all, something else: cursed energy, dense and subtle, controlled. It slid through the room like a warning.
His mouth twitched. He hadn't even disliked it. Somewhere under the irritation and bruised ego, something sparked. Maybe respect. Or just a deeply unhealthy obsession forming in real time. Kami, he hated her. He really, really wanted to see what her pretty face looked like when it cracked, when she stopped being perfect and fake.
Finally, in a move to de-escalate—or at least appear to—Seijiro forced a laugh, big, easy, practiced and clapped his hands once like she'd just told a joke. "My bad, Zenin-sama," he said, bowing with exaggerated flair. "I see why they call you a prodigy."
I will burn your entire clan down, he thought, as he stepped back and forced his smirk into place. And I'll start with you.
In the meantime, the elder head of the Kamo, seated in his place of honor in front of them, smiled; that awful, slow, foxlike smile that made Seijiro want to flip the table just to see if it would shake.
"Ah, how fortunate we are," the old man began, spreading his hands like a host welcoming guests to their own execution, "to welcome the two prodigious heirs of the Gojo and Zenin clans under one roof. A sign, surely, of hope for this country's future." His eyes sparkled with performative fondness. "Though I must admit, I had hoped your esteemed fathers would be here as well. Naturally, no offense intended to either of you." He added it with a sigh that managed to sound both wistful and passive-aggressive.
Naturally.
Seijiro's smile turned knife-like, as he lowered his voice with mock gravity. "Oh, none taken. Perhaps," he said lightly, "the noble Takahiro Zenin thought it best to send his heir to bow and make amends in person. Very touching. Shows growth."
Kaoru, unshaken, responded in a calm, cutting tone. "Or perhaps, Gojo-sama," she said coolly, "our fathers believed the next generation might finally succeed where they failed: in achieving a diplomatic resolution that doesn't end in bloodshed." She tilted her head toward him just enough to make it clear she was enjoying this.
There was a ripple in the room, the sound of restrained breathing and a few people reconsidering their afternoon plans.
Seijiro's smirk didn't budge, but the slight narrowing of her eyes added weight to the remark and he felt it land squarely.
The regent's representative, clearly fed up with their sparring, cleared his throat with a sound that might've killed a bird. "If you're both done performing," he said flatly, "perhaps we can return to the matter at hand."
Silence.
"The Three-Star Spear has vanished from beneath Fushimi Castle. Its disappearance triggered the collapse of the barrier around the capital, and since then, high-grade curses have flooded the region. Toyotomi Hideyoshi was found delirious and died within the week. The circumstances of his death strongly suggest curse poisoning." He exhaled, long and slow. "We have managed to keep this contained. But it won't be long before someone will move to fill the power vacuum and others will follow. And this country will fall into a full-scale war."
Seijiro's jaw tightened.
Then, as if summoned by timing too perfect to be accidental, the Kamo patriarch chimed in again, voice light, sharp at the edges. "One cannot help but wonder," he said in a tone that was meant to sound innocent but bit nonetheless, "how such an artifact could go missing beneath the nose of the Gojo clan. You were, after all, its custodians."
Seijiro's smile thinned. Senile old fox. "The timing was unfortunate," he said, just short of a growl. "We were assisting with Tengen-sama's ritual, far from Kyoto. The Gojo clan is now ensuring the safety of Hideyoshi's heir, but without the spear, that task grows... complicated." He shifted his weight slightly, letting the weight of his words settle over the room. Then: "The solution is simple. Retrieve the spear. Return it to its rightful place beneath Fushimi. This would restore stability and deter further belligerent attempts, and would buy time for the political sphere to reorganize and regain balance."
Kaoru's voice cut in like she'd been waiting. "So the Gojo clan should reclaim the spear. Again. How convenient."
Seijiro's eyes flicked to her as his brow twitched in irritation. "Indeed. As it has been for centuries. Unless Zenin-sama has a more inspired suggestion?"
She stepped forward slightly, just enough to command the room. "Restoring the barrier won't fix the country. It'll just delay the collapse. Hideyoshi's heir is a child and the daimyō are restless. Power is shifting. The spear won't stop that anymore now, leaving the country further fragmented." She directed her attention toward the Kamo head and the regent's representative. The latter seemed particularly interested in Kaoru's argument.
"And your proposal, Zenin-sama?" the regent's representative asked, brow knitted.
Kaoru took a measured and respectful step forward. "Let it play out. The shift is inevitable, intervening only escalates the risk," she said without missing a beat. "Better a swift conflict now than a dragged-out war later. If such a war were to happen, there will be a significant outbreak in high-grade curses. Our role is to contain that, not interfere in political succession."
Seijiro's jaw clenched. "You'd let the country burn and a five year old die just to make a philosophical point?" He laughed, sharp and mean. "Wow. That's cold, even for the Zenin. How perfect that your 'neutral' strategy also clears the path for Tokugawa-dono; your clan's benefactor, if I remember correctly?"
Kaoru's head turned slowly. Her eyes met his, cool, controlled, but something in her expression gave; not pain, not guilt. Something closer to grief she'd already buried. And still, she didn't flinch. "If a single fire prevents a larger one," she said softly, "we let it burn."
Seijiro stepped forward as his voice dropped into something quieter and darker. "That five-year-old boy is not just a symbol, he's a child. He didn't ask for this. But you'd let him die to spare yourself a messy transition?"
Kaoru stared back just as hard. "I'd let the world decide its own shape and clean up the curses left behind."
That hit. Harder than it should have. Seijiro's fingers curled into fists inside his sleeves. "Do you even know nothing about the spear's disappearance, Zenin-sama?" he asked. "Or are you just pretending innocence like the rest of your clan?"
Kaoru's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Careful, Gojo-sama."
"Enough!" the Kamo patriarch said brightly, clapping once like he was announcing a new course at dinner. "Let's not turn this into a blame game. Both heirs make fair points." His tone was too cheerful to be real, and his next words came dipped in poison. "But the spear must be recovered. That is non-negotiable. Its power cannot remain unchecked in unknown hands." He looked to the regent's representative, who nodded once, exhausted, resigned. "We have reason to believe the spear it's somewhere in the Iga region," the Kamo patriarch continued. "Curses are nesting there, and the area under the Hattori clan surveillance is infested by a cursed fog. They're barricated inside their village, and reports suggest the spear's somewhere near the ruins of a forgotten barrier site. It won't be and easy mission."
Seijiro heard his father's voice again. Retrieve the spear. Keep it in Gojo hands. He stepped forward, slipping his hands into his haori's sleeves like he was posing for a portrait. "The Gojo clan will handle the recovery," he said smoothly with a over-confident smile.
Kaoru matched him step for step. "The Iga region borders Zenin territory. It's under Hattori jurisdiction, long-time allies of my clan. Logistically, politically, tactically, we're the better choice." She lifted her pointed gaze on Seijiro once again. He met her head on, neither one willing to cede ground. "And perhaps, if we succeed, it will clear the slander Gojo-sama has so generously cast in our direction."
The room fell into a silence as the Kamo head and the representative of the Five Regents exchanged a quick glance, their expressions conveying a shared agreement.
"Well then," the old Kamo patriarch announced, his enthusiasm back in full force. "To ensure fairness, I propose a joint operation. Gojo and Zenin. Together." He beamed. Wide. Innocent. Evil. "With our two prodigies leading the way, what could possibly go wrong? I have no doubt the spear will be recovered quickly."
Seijiro stiffened just slightly. His smirk faltered for half a breath, not enough for anyone but Kaoru to notice. He didn't need to look at her to know she was fuming behind that perfect mask of Zenin serenity.
Still, he glanced, and...
There it was, his reward. The tiniest flicker on Kaoru's face, not anger, not fear, just pure, simmering inconvenience. And kami, it was delicious. Aw. The Pretty Boy's upset. He bit back a laugh. What a shame. Poor thing.
Not that he liked the idea either; he'd sooner drink boiling ink than team up with a Zenin. But even he had to admit: this was a golden opportunity. Proximity meant leverage. Leverage meant openings. And accidents... well. Accidents happened all the time in places like Iga. Cursed forests, poor visibility, tragic falls.
Ah, he mused to himself. So tragic if the prodigy of the Zenin clan were to meet an unfortunate end on this mission.
Kaoru's voice sliced through his fantasy. "Kamo-dono," she said, respectful but tight. "While I understand the intent, I must register my concern. A joint operation risks conflicting leadership. Efficiency may suffer."
Seijiro rolled his eyes. Ah, there it is. The perfect Zenin politeness wrapped around a blatant excuse. But before he could open his mouth—
"The objection is noted," snapped the regent's representative, who looked about five minutes from declaring both clans enemies of the state. "But irrelevant. The spear is too valuable. You will cooperate."
Seijiro bit back a laugh at the sight of Kaoru's jaw tightening and her hands clenching just out of sight beneath her sleeves.
He smiled.
And when Kaoru's eyes met his, it was a perfect stalemate: her contempt wrapped in silk, his amusement sharpened to a blade. For a fleeting moment, Seijiro thought he saw something crack beneath the younger heir's mask. Not irritation, as he'd hoped, but something far more composed: disdain, perhaps? No. Annoyance? Possibly. But whatever it was, it didn't fully break Kaoru's quiet poise.
Infuriating.
He stepped forward, bowing slightly to the Kamo clan head who was beaming as though he'd solved all the country's problems in one stupid suggestion. Then, he flashed his most diplomatic wolf-smile. "I, Seijiro Gojo, am of course happy to set aside any petty differences for the greater good." He paused. Just long enough to twist the knife. "After all," he added, glancing sideways at Kaoru, "didn't Zenin-sama say the new generation should lead with diplomacy and cooperation?"
Kaoru's eyes narrowed as she smiled. The kind of smile that usually came before executions. Slowly, she inclined her head, her tone reluctant. "You're right, Gojo-sama," she said. "And as much as it pains me, I must honor my own words."
Her voice was sugar, but the look in her eyes was arsenic. And Seijiro, bastard that he was, savored it.
"Excellent!" the Kamo patriarch beamed, clearly convinced he'd just solved all of Japan's problems by trapping two apex predators in the same cage. "With the combined might of Gojo and Zenin, I'm sure the balance will be restored in no time."
Balance, Seijiro thought. You poor bastard. You have no idea what you've just done.
Kaoru straightened, hands folded with mechanical grace, and bowed slightly. "Of course, Kamo-dono. The Zenin clan is honored to contribute to the restoration of national order."
Seijiro suppressed a snort. He doubted a Zenin could say "national order" without later gagging in private. He mirrored her movements, offering a crisp nod to the patriarch. "The Gojo clan, too, pledges its full cooperation." Then, letting his voice drop just enough to glide on the tension, he turned to Kaoru. "I look forward," he said, all silk and teeth, "to a fruitful collaboration for the good of our society, Zenin-sama."
Her smile returned, frost over steel. "As do I, Gojo-sama. I trust your skills won't... disappoint. Unlike your puntuality."
His grin froze for just a beat. Oh, you little shit—
They stood there, locked in a silent battle of wills. Seijiro's gaze once again traced over Kaoru's figure, before she inclined her head just barely, a gesture that should've read as polite but felt like a challenge thrown across the floor. He mirrored the motion, tightly, and turned on his heel, haori flaring, as he strode away from the room. He only looked back once, just long enough to see Kaoru already murmuring to her guard, hands moving slightly as she gestured, graceful, deliberate, and utterly composed.
Beautifully irritating. His gaze lingered. Delicate little doll, he thought, jaw tight, smirk gone cold. Let's see how well you hold up when things get real.
.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
Kaoru paced, barefoot, the slap of her heels against the tatami a metronome of fury. The candlelight threw her shadow across the room, fractured by every step
The formalwear was gone. Hours ago, she'd peeled it off like a second skin. Now she wore only her white juban, thin and loose, and her hair spilled down her back like black ink. She looked unrecognizable. Which was the point. It was a rare sight that she'd never allow in public, the one indulgence she allowed herself in private as a fleeting return to her natural state, before she wrapped herself again in her fabricated identity to face the world.
The chest bindings lay discarded in a crumpled heap near the door. For once, she could breathe.
Pity it didn't help.
"Pretty boy?" she hissed under her breath, throwing her hands into the air as she mimicked Seijiro's drawling tone. "Do you actually have something between your legs?" She spun on her heel, her expression a storm of outrage. "Did you hear him, 'Nobu? He thinks he's better than me because he's got a—" she gestured wildly, vaguely, dangerously, "—staff dangling between his legs?"
Harunobu, kneeling calmly across the room with his katana resting on his lap, blinked once. Then again, slowly. There was a small trace of amusement in his eyes, though he wisely refrained from commenting immediately. He'd seen this before, the post-council tantrum, the mask cracked, the frustration boiled over, and all the elegance of Kaoru Zenin melted into irritated pacing and theatrical monologue. And as the only person besides her late mother privy to her secret, he had long accepted his role as the recipient of these tirades.
He didn't even try to interrupt until she nearly elbowed a candle off its stand.
"Kaoru-sama," he said, serene as a shrine bell, "perhaps... slightly lower volume. And fewer references to... Staffs. We cannot guarantee there are no ears pressed against these walls."
Kaoru whirled, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes at him, offended. "What? Why? Not proper for a pretty boy?"
Harunobu let out a long breath. The kind that said I am far too old for this, despite being only in his thirties. His tone however, remained as even as ever. "You know I didn't mean that. I am merely suggesting caution. For both of our sakes."
She clicked her tongue and bit her thumbnail—a childhood habit Harunobu had failed to break her of over the years at her side. Her feet resumed their angry march. "He shows up late. He insults me in front of the entire Kamo delegation. And then—then—he implies that we're responsible for the spear disappearing? As if the Gojo clan wasn't supposed to be guarding it!" She flung a hand upward like she was calling lightning. "They lose the artifact and expect us to thank them for the privilege of giving it back!" She stopped suddenly, spinning to face Harunobu again, her hands on her hips as if she was scolding him now.
Harunobu allowed her to vent, nodding occasionally.
"Responsibility for Kyoto lies with the Gojo clan," she continued, her voice rising as she gestured animatedly. "If the spear went missing, it's on the Gojo clan first and foremost. And what does he propose? That we hand the spear right back to them, so they can continue playing protectors of a crumbling dynasty? Ridiculous. Don't they see they're just delaying the inevitable conflict?"
Harunobu inclined his head. "Your composure during the discussion was exemplary. I am confident the regent's representative took note."
Kaoru waved off the compliment with a petulant huff, moving to the low writing table in the corner of the room. "I don't need flattery, 'Nobu. I need solutions," she muttered, reaching for an inkstone and a blank scroll. Her movements were brisk but not careless; she could be furious and still write with perfect brush technique.
Sitting cross-legged, she dipped her brush into the ink, muttering under her breath as she began to write. "This collaboration with the Gojo clan must succeed," she said aloud as she began writing across the paper with quick strokes. "No matter how infuriating that Seijiro Gojo may be, I will not allow relations between our clans to deteriorate further under my watch." The brush glided smoothly on the parchment even as her thoughts raced. "We recover the damn thing. We stabilize the Iga region. And then we renegotiate with the spear in our hands," she said firmly, pausing for a moment to glance at Harunobu. "I won't allow failure."
She paused, gripping the brush tightly, her father's words echoing in her mind: If the opportunity arises, claim the spear for the Zenin clan.
Easier said than done, she thought bitterly.
Harunobu, watching her quietly, asked: "And if Gojo attempts to sabotage the mission?"
Kaoru didn't look up. "He will." She dipped the brush again into the ink, shoulders still tense. "If he could push me into a cursed swamp and walk away unscratched, he would." A pause. "And honestly," she added, "I don't blame him. That's what I'd do."
She finished writing with a final flourish and rolled the scroll tightly.
Harunobu rose smoothly to his feet, accepting the scroll Kaoru handed him with a respectful bow. "I'll ensure this reaches the head of the clan promptly," he said, his tone formal but steady.
Kaoru nodded, her expression softening slightly as she watched him leave. "Thank you, Harunobu," she murmured. "We'll need Hattori-dono's support if we're going to cross into Iga. If he doesn't back us, we won't make it to the spear, let alone back out."
Harunobu bowed, but lingered. His eyes searched hers for something, fear, maybe. Doubt. He didn't find either, but her shoulders had stiffened again. She caught his look and answered it before he could speak. "I'll be fine."
He nodded once, then turned and slid the door shut behind him.
The silence that followed was thick. Kaoru sat for a long moment. Then leaned back on her hands, exhaling toward the ceiling.
She hated how familiar this was; this ache behind her eyes, this throb in her ribs where the bindings usually pinched. Hated that Seijiro Gojo had gotten under her skin with two sentences and a condescending smile.
Kaoru closed her eyes. And saw him. That smirk. That tilted head, the slow rake of his gaze like he was cataloguing her every weaknesses. Her fingers curled into her sleeve. Why had it stung so much? She'd endured worse. From elders, from her father, even from herself.
But something about him—the way he looked at her. Like he could afford to be effortless. Like he never had to hide.
Her voice came out dry as her hand brushing absently through her unbound hair. "Why does he get under my skin like this?"
The flicker of her reflection in the inkstone stared back: a delicate face, black round eyes still burning with unspent anger, and lips too full now pressed into a thin line. Because he doesn't have to pretend, she thought bitterly. Because he walks into a room and is. And I have to carve myself into something acceptable every day just to be allowed to exist. She pushed the thought away, standing abruptly and moving to extinguish the candles. The room fell into darkness, leaving only the soft sound of her breath and the distant hum of cicadas outside.
"This will work," she said into the dark. "It has to."
She would walk into Iga beside Seijiro Gojo and retrieve the spear. And then? Then she'd make sure everyone remembered why she was the Zenin heir.
Not despite what she was, but because of it.
.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
The morning sun spilled across the inner courtyard of the Kamo residence like it hadn't been personally offended the day before. The air was too clean. The light too golden. It was the kind of weather that made diplomats lie more politely.
Kaoru stood tall—or short, if you asked Seijiro—at the head of the Zenin delegation: crimson kosode clean and perfectly fitting, black hakama tied with surgical precision, her boots wrapped tightly to the calf, practical for both travel and battle. Her katana hung at her hip, and her hair, bound high in a perfect tail, didn't dare move out of place.
Across from her, Seijiro looked like a crime against every court protocol. His black uniform was slightly rumpled, his white haori draped over one shoulder like it had been flung there by a servant in a hurry. His white hair was a mess of white strands that fell lazily into his face, tied, technically in its signature low ponytail, but clearly he couldn't be bothered to tame it.
And still, he looked every bit the prodigy. Tall, relaxed and already smirking. The thought of his unkempt appearance irked her more than it should, especially as he stood there towering over her, as if his height alone were a declaration of dominance.
Kaoru's eye twitched. He probably could fight blindfolded, she thought bitterly. Not that he ever bothers to look like someone with responsibilities.
Behind her, Harunobu stood like a statue at a respectful distance. Across the courtyard, Seijiro's shinobi— Rensuke—mirrored the stance with visible disapproval, arms folded like this whole mission offended him. Both guards maintained the perfect balance, each acutely aware of their masters' volatile temperaments.
Then Seijiro opened his mouth, folding with fake innocence his hands behind his back. "I trust you spent all night mapping the perfect route to Iga, Zenin-sama," he said, voice light, almost cheerful. "Since you were so keen to boast about your clan's knowledge of the terrain, I'm sure you've come up with something impressive."
Kaoru didn't flinch, refusing to rise to the bait. Instead, she folded her arms mirroring the Gojo heir and spoke with measured calm. "Of course, Gojo-sama. Southeast through Yamashiro, following the Kizu River," she replied crisply. "From there, the Soni Highlands into Iga. Steep terrain, minimal cursed activity. Most efficient path."
Kamo-dono, watching from the engawa like a proud grandfather at a Noh recital, clapped his hands together in delight. "Marvelous! Truly, Zenin-dono's mind is a treasure of the nation."
Seijiro hummed. "Mm. It's a fine plan, I'll admit. Although—" he tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness, "—the Kizu River does tend to flood this time of year, doesn't it? We might end up swimming part of the way."
Kaoru didn't even blink. "A valid point," she conceded smoothly. "If the river's high, we divert south through Yamato and enter Iga from the north. Longer, yes. But it avoids the risk of flooding entirely."
Seijiro blinked once. Then smiled, slightly tighter, but he masked his annoyance with a casual shrug. Fast on his feet, he thought. Annoyingly so. "Well," he said, his tone breezy, "I suppose I underestimated how thorough you'd be, Zenin-sama."
Kaoru folded her arms. "Clearly."
Seijiro gestured vaguely at the groups. "Shall we lead the way, then? Set a noble example for our growling subordinates?" Behind them, the two delegations glared at each other with all the professionalism of a family feud at a funeral. "Although," he added with mock sympathy, "judging by the looks they're exchanging, I'd say our mutual lack of respect is contagious. I wouldn't hold out too much hope for peace and diplomacy."
Kaoru didn't look. She didn't need to. The tension was visible in posture alone, Gojo sorcerers bristling across from Zenin retainers like two packs forced into the same den. It was clear that any hope of cooperation between their subordinates hinged entirely on the two of them.
Wonderful, she thought sarcastically.He's right.
"Very well," she said, chin raised. "Let's set the example."
The elder Kamo-dono beamed as he stepped forward. "Splendid! I knew this collaboration would be fruitful. I have taken the liberty of preparing horses for you, just beyond the estate gates. May your journey be swift and successful."
Kaoru's lips twitched in something that might have been mistaken for a smile if one wasn't paying attention. "We are grateful for your hospitality, Kamo-dono."
The two leaders stepped out of the courtyard, flanked by their retainers. Seijiro moved with an ease that Kaoru couldn't help but find offensive, swinging onto his sleek black horse with a grace that seemed almost effortless. His men stood into formation behind him.
Kaoru approached hers, hand already on the saddle as she prepared to mount, and then it came; Seijiro's voice cut through the quiet, loud enough to draw the attention of both delegations. "Oh," he called sweetly. "How rude of me, Pretty Boy. Would you like a hand getting up? Too big of a horse for you?"
Harunobu twitched. Actually twitched. His fingers brushed the hilt of his katana as he shot Seijiro a withering glare. Kaoru, cheeks flushing faintly, turned her wide-eyed stare to Harunobu before shaking her head stopping him mid-motion. She closed her eyes in a silent prayer for patience.
Ridiculous, she thought, seething inwardly.
She didn't respond. Just planted her foot firmly in the stirrup and hoisted herself up with all the grace of someone who had nothing left to prove. Once seated, she turned to him with a pointed glare, before returning her eyes forward. "Thank you for your concern, Gojo-sama."
Seijiro grinned at her, giving a low, theatrical bow from atop his horse. "Nicely done." His horse stepped up beside hers. "Of course. Just doing my part to support the alliance."
She ignored him.
Behind them, both delegations fell into formation behind them in tense silence. As they departed the Kamo residence, the road to Iga loomed; forests, curses, sabotage, politics.
And worse, each other.
.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
The journey was quiet, but not peaceful.
Hooves against packed earth, and cicadas humming overhead. And between them, a silence so thick it might as well have been cursed, palpable even to the delegations trudging behind them.
Kaoru sat tall in her saddle, her posture still perfect but every muscle coiled in restraint; she'd spent the better part of the ride pretending Seijiro didn't exist, not the way his voice kept drifting lazily across the space between them, not the smugness stitched into every syllable.
This is for the clan, she reminded herself like a mantra. This is for stability. I will make this work. And yet, her temples throbbed like she'd been headbutting a shrine bell.
Seijiro, meanwhile, looked thoroughly unbothered and delighted by her discomfort. He lounged in his saddle like a man enjoying a mid-autumn ride with a mild hangover and no real consequences, completely at home in his own self-importance. The occasional barbs he kept tossing her way, light, dry, perfectly audible, landed like fists.
"So, tell me, Pretty Boy," he'd said, mocking, loud enough for half the entourage to hear. "Do you always lead from the front like a real general? Or is this a special treat, just for me? I didn't realize we were on such… amicable terms, I assumed you were more the pince-kind, leading safely from mid-formation."
Kaoru had endured it all with remarkable diplomacy, though her grip on the reins tightened with every word. Her lips twitched, a forced smile, almost a snarl. "Amicable terms require mutual respect, Gojo-sama. Something we seem to lack." She exhaled slowly. Diplomacy, Kaoru. Remember diplomacy. Though by now, the mental image of throttling Seijiro Gojo had become surprisingly detailed.
Behind them, the delegations mimicked their leaders' dynamic with admirable loyalty: tension stiff as armor, eyes on the treeline, hands twitching near hilts and cursed energy boiling under skin. The ceasefire was as stable as wet paper.
By late afternoon, they reached a clearing nestled deep within a wooded stretch of the route to Iga. Tall cedars, moss-covered, loomed overhead, giving protection.
Kaoru dismounted her horse with a fluidity that surprised even herself, landing on the ground more gracefully than she had anticipate, and Harunobu appeared at her side without a word, taking the reins. She brushed past him, her crimson sleeves swaying as she moved toward the center of the clearing.
"This will do," she declared simply. "We'll camp here for the night."
Seijiro dropped from his horse with all the lazy elegance of a cat dismounting a windowsill. He handed the reins to Rensuke without so much as a glance and stretched, his haori slipping just off one shoulder. He took a deliberate step closer, the corner of his mouth curling into a sardonic smile. "Hmm. Charming," he drawled, scanning the area with a feigned air of boredom. "Though forests can be... tricky." His ice-blue eyes slid toward Kaoru, darkening slightly as he let the words hang. "Especially in Zenin territory. Easy to hide things in. Like—oh, I don't know—ambushes. But I suppose you'd know all about that."
Kaoru's eyes narrowed, her spine straightening. What now.
"If it will ease your delicate nerves," she said, tone glacial, "I can secure the perimeter."
She didn't wait for permission, she didn't need it from Seijiro Gojo. Her hands moved into formation, the first seal half-formed before she even finished the sentence. "Although," she added, not looking at him, "one would think someone with the Six Eyes might have spotted any danger by now. Or is that too much to ask—"
She didn't get far.
His hand shot out, fingers wrapping tightly around her wrist, hard enough to hurt and to stop her mid-summoning.
Everything froze and Kaoru's breath caught. Her eyes flashed with equal parts fury and shock as her gaze snapped to his like it wasn't already fire. Blue. Too close. Seijiro's expression was uncharacteristically serious, too serious. Gone was the lazy grin. In its place: unspoken accusations.
For a moment, the world seemed to still.
"What are you doing, Zenin-sama?" he asked, too calm to be harmless.
Kaoru's gaze hardened as she stood her ground. "What are you doing, Gojo-sama?"
Seijiro's grip tightened slightly, his smirk returning in full force despite the tension. "You think now's a good time to summon shikigami?" he hissed. "In the middle of a forest we barely know? Surrounded by two delegations one insult away from civil war? What were you planning, exactly? A surprise mauling? What a charming way to assassinate us all. "
Kaoru's brow furrowed, her free hand clenching into a fist at her side. "My Divine Dogs can scout the perimeter." She yanked once. Useless. "They're the best sentinels. If there's any danger nearby, they'll alert us immediately."
"Right." He didn't let go. "So you weren't trying to ambush us. Just giving your pets some air."
She stepped forward, coiled tight. "If I wanted to ambush you, Gojo-sama," she said, "you wouldn't see it coming." Her voice didn't rise. Which made it worse.
And that's when Seijiro saw them. He scoffed, though his grip didn't loosen. "Funny," he said, voice flat, "they look pretty eager to kill now"
It wasn't until that moment that Kaoru noticed it: the tension had metastasized. Harunobu's katana was suddenly unsheathed and he now stood just behind Seijiro, blade poised at his throat. And Rensuke—silent, unreadable Rensuke—had materialized beside Kaoru, blade angled toward her ribs. Behind them, the Gojo and Zenin retainers had drawn weapons or activated cursed techniques ready to strike at the first order.
A single twitch and someone would bleed.
And just to make things worse—as if the air needed more cursed energy—two massive shikigami had materialized in a ripple of shadows, now flanking their masters. More wolf than dogs. White and black. Kaoru's Divine Dogs. The black one growled low at Seijiro while the white one focused on Rensuke.
Seijiro's fingers tightened ever so slightly around Kaoru's wrist, the faintest smirk curling his lips. Too fast. He almost missed the moment she completed the summoning. Even his Six Eyes hadn't caught it in full. and that gnawed at him. "Cute," he said. "Do they sit and roll over too?"
"You should release me, Gojo-sama," Kaoru said, voice soft but lethal as she refused to break eye contact.
Seijiro's smirk didn't waver as he replied evenly. "You should dismiss your little mutts, Zenin-sama."
The standoff stretched unbearably, both heirs locked in a silent battle of wills. Neither moved, the tension between them a powder keg waiting for the spark. Even the forest seemed to hold its breath. Then, it was Kaoru who acted first. She exhaled, slow, cold, as she commanded both the shikigami and her delegation to stand down. The Dogs hesitated just long enough to remind everyone they answered only to her, then retreated. One sat at her side, the other obediently at her feet.
And finally, Seijiro let go. The warmth of his hand lingered just a second too long for Kaoru to feel the touch fade.
Harunobu and Rensuke mirrored them, their weapons sheathing with soft clicks. Around them, tension receded like a tide.
"I apologize, Zenin-sama. Try announcing your brilliant plans next time. Or are we playing ambush the Gojo heir today?" Seijiro said brightly, but the sarcasm in his tone didn't fully mask the edge. He was genuinely pissed. "By all means, do continue your patrol. I'm sure your… puppies will do a splendid job."
He turned, haori flicking behind him, muttering something under his breath about dramatics.and stalked back to his delegation without another word. Rensuke following closely behind, though he shot Harunobu a look that said, next time, this gets bloody, before disappearing into the trees with his master.
Kaoru stood still for a moment, breathing shallow. Her wrist burned where he'd touched her, not from pain; from insult. From humiliation. She knelt and ran a hand down the black shikigami's back. Its fur pulsed with residual cursed energy beneath her palm.
"Scout," she whispered.
The beasts melted into the shadows, their form vanishing into the treeline swiftly as it had appeared and behind her, the clearing went silent except for the breath of wind through leaves and the low hum of retreating tension.
She stood, gaze lingering on Seijiro as he strode away, his back straight and his haori and his ponytail swaying with each deliberate step.
Her wrist throbbed where his fingers had dug in.
The skin where he'd grabbed her was already bruised, a stark mark blooming violet against her skin. He'd grabbed her hard, harder than necessary. She ran her fingers over it. His hand had been warm. An infuriating contrast to his icy eyes. Too close. If I'd hesitated for half a second, he'd have stopped me.
Harunobu stepped beside her, still silent, still tense. He glanced at her wrist, frowining slightly. "Bruise," he observed.
"It's nothing," Kaoru snapped, her voice sharper than she intended.
"You were faster than him," her retainer pointed.
Her hand stilled as she blinked at him. "Not fast enough," she replied, her tone quieter now. "I hesitated. He could have stopped me."
Harunobu looked toward the trees where Seijiro had disappeared. "He hesitated too," he said simply.
Kaoru looked away, her jaw tight. So much for diplomacy, she thought grimly, a smirk tugging at her lips. We're definitely going to murder each other before the spear even shows up.
Across the clearing, Seijiro flexed his hand, brow furrowing in thought. The feel of her wrist still lingered, smaller than he had anticipated, cold, but fragile only on the surface. That speed in her summoning, though, that control. It was something else entirely, and that was the problem.
She didn't match. She shouldn't match. He'd grabbed her before he thought about it. Instinct; control the situation, cut off the threat, and she hadn't even blinked; she'd stared him down, leashless shikigami at her feet, and still not flinched.
Not once.
"Damn," Seijiro muttered as he flexed again the hand he had used to grab Kaoru's wrist, as if getting rid of the memory.
That delicate frame doesn't match the force behind it. He was fast. I hesitated and didn't stop the summoning in time.
The irritation crept back into him as he replayed the moment in his head. Kaoru's defiance, the unwavering intensity in those black, hawk-like eyes, the way she had held her ground despite the tension spiraling out of control. Too delicate. And yet, faster than me. His gaze dropped momentarily to his palm, annoyed by how much he could still feel the touch.
Beside him, Rensuke walked in silence. Then, dryly: "You were slower than him," he said blandly.
"I know," Seijiro snapped. He paused, then pouted anyway. "Not by much." He paused mid-step, casting one last glance over his shoulder toward the clearing where Kaoru was still standing.
His palm itched still. Still felt the chill of her skin there. Still couldn't make it make sense. Thin wrist. High ponytail. Pretty face. He looked down at his palm, as if something should be there, a mark, a memory. There wasn't.
But it still felt like her.
"As I told you. Unusual," Rensuke said again.
"Unusual? No," Seijiro admitted reluctantly.
Unusual didn't cover it.
"Trouble," his voice came softer now, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. "Pretty Boy is going to be nothing but trouble."
.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
Within the quiet confines of the Kamo residence, the elderly head of the clan sat cross-legged at a low writing table. The dim glow of candlelight flickered over his aged, impassive face as he carefully brushed characters onto a roll of parchment.
There was a soft knock at the sliding door. Without lifting his gaze, the old man gave a slight nod. A subordinate entered, bowing deeply before stepping forward with measured steps. He presented a bloodstained scroll with both hands, his posture low and deferential.
"This was carried by the Zenin messenger," the subordinate said quietly.
The Kamo head paused his writing, his movements deliberate as he reached out to take the scroll. He did not so much as glance at the dried blood smearing its surface as he unfurled it and scanned its contents.
"Good," he murmured, his tone low and satisfied. He reached for the scroll he had been writing, now completed, and rolled it tightly before handing it to the subordinate. "Deliver this in its place. Ensure the head of the Zenin clan receives it."
The man nodded sharply, taking the scroll with practiced care and stepping back to leave. Before the subordinate could exit, the Kamo head's voice cut through the silence again, dispassionate and measured.
"Any survivors from the ambush on the young Gojo heir?"
The subordinate hesitated for only a moment before replying, "None."
"Perfect."
The man bowed once more and disappeared into the night, leaving the old Kamo alone with his thoughts. He sat back, stroking his chin with a look of quiet satisfaction.
"Perfect," he repeated to himself, a faint, cold smile tugging at his lips.
Let the Gojos and Zenins tear each other apart.